Livin' in the CSA
by hanareader
Summary: It is 1861 when England sails back to America for the second time since the Revolution. There he meets Confederacy, America's newfound brother, who Alfred ultimately refuses to allow association with. Why? The real reasons to the Civil War. Warnings: light boys love
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: There is some one-sided shounen ai, or light boys love so just warning you if that's not your thing. There are no cuss words, no violence, and lastly England likes America in a _parental_ sort of nature. Thanks anyway for reading.

* * *

It was late evening and the sun's rays had left, leaving Alfred freezing cold under the mercy of the beach winds. They were not merciful.

The American didn't have much to protect himself. He had on regular brown pants, but they were ones that weren't tough enough to block the wind. His shoes slightly sunk into the sand, like stones in water, and it was only because of his insane strength that Alfred could still walk across the shore. He carried a slick leather jacket, to be manly and hero-like of sorts, but such clothing was too stiff to provide him warmth: it should've had cotton underlining.

However, Alfred didn't have the time to be comfortable. Today was an important day; he had to endure this. England was coming to his country for the second time, at least second time since the Revolution. He never really visited during the past century, only coming once to argue with him over his Indian tribes. Tribes that he'd never really cared about before, that hypocrite. But the War of 1812 was the last America had seen the Brit, when they were both at their worst.

Alfred hoped today wasn't like that. It was why he came here personally, to establish some sort of peace from the beginning. Undoubtedly, England could still come bitter and end up throwing his cold tolerance to waste. But America knew it would be even worse if he didn't try to be a good host. Arthur hadn't asked him to wait when he'd come, probably didn't even expect that out of his former colony. But Alfred would surprise him.

In minutes, a ship's plank was down, allowing its passengers to disembark with ease. The friends and family waiting for the new import of people now rushed to the ship and cries of "I missed you!" ensued. At this, America smiled. They may have been immigrants, people of other various countries he never really cared for-or even known-but he was very happy for them. Happy to accept them.

But even as more relatives ran after their families, he didn't move a single inch to follow. His smile was gone, and he stood stiff and downcast, twiddling his thumbs behind his back as he waited for the crowd to dissipate.

It was when nearly a third of the people had left that he finally saw England, who was still on the ship. America watched him looking over the ship's rail, and followed the Brit's gaze to other reuniting families. Surely, such heart-warming reunions were beautiful even amongst the worst of the storm. But when Alfred noticed the older country give a small smile upon them he couldn't help but stare. It was like a warm, tender mirth that glowed across the dock, and although it wasn't aimed directly at him, such an expression made his heart beat faster.

The American didn't initially realize England change his course of sight. He was lost, thinking, when the Brit looked away from what he was smiling upon and turned right to him. The Brit had these surprised set of eyes that Alfred could see widen, even in the darkness of the shore. And Alfred stared back at Arthur. '_I bet you didn't expect me coming,'_ he thought with a smirk.

Someone had shoved the American, a quick curve that forced Alfred to pull his eyes away from the Brit momentarily. In that time spanse, he didn't notice the older country blush and scurry away from the ship's rail. Once he turned, he blinked, and Arthur was gone.

"What the-" Alfred looked confused as he roamed his eyes over the ship's deck. No one besides the ship's bumbling crew was there.

"Where did he go?" he whispered aloud, as if someone nearby could answer. He was the only one still on the beach as far as he could tell. Everyone else stood with their families on the dock, happily embracing one another.

It was when he squinted closely that he could see Arthur slowly walking down the plank and onto the dock. The Englishman had on a thick, dark-gray topcoat, one that seemed to not only barricade England from the violent beach winds, but also obscure his face to a point beyond recognition. Or maybe it was really difficult for Alfred to see as clearly. He didn't have any glasses on. However, the American did notice a medium-sized, tan object that Arthur towed behind himself. It seemed to be lightweight; America couldn't discern any trouble England had from pulling it across the sand towards him.

'_Oh, he went back to get his suitcase,' _Alfred "a-ha"ed for a moment as he stared at the luggage behind Arthur's legs. The annoying sound of sand eroding off the suitcase wheels had finally stopped: it paused a good meter away. America looked up and met England's eyes cautiously as he waited for him to say something.

England cleared his throat. "Hello, Alfred," he said while blushing and tugging repeatedly at the collar of his topcoat, as if to cover himself even more. He was stretching the material like the next Procrustes, his fingers pulling upwards with insatiable haste. America wondered if he had a fever in this weather, despite the heavy clothes he was wearing.

"Hey," Alfred said blandly, turning his attention to the other shipgoers and the families back at the dock. Raising an eyebrow, he watched with curiousity as they openly hugged each other. He then turned his attention back to England, staring as the Brit shuffled in his coat: a slight shiver.

"Well, how have you been?" Arthur started.

"I've been well," The American responded quickly without skipping a beat. He turned around and walked, big steps, away from England. Taking a quick glance to the eventful, dark sky, he sped up. "Let's get out of this weather," he called out from behind him. "This is the way."

The irritating noise of the suitcase had started again as Arthur made his way to follow Alfred. It sounded to the American like a fast yet off-tune drumroll, consistent in only its dissonance with the occasional gun-popping sound of an especially large grain of sand. But this background music was secondary to Arthur's mild grunting, as the Englishman tried his hardest to keep up with the pace and pull his belongings at the same time.

After an especially hard huff and quite some panting to follow, Alfred's hand involuntarily twitched. He abruptly turned around, faced the Brit, and began to speak.

"I-um," America looked away immediately.

"What's wrong, Alfred?" England asked, trying to restrain his exhausted pants.

The American turned back around again. "Nothing," he said dismissively, with a wave of his hand. He started to walk, but took slower, smaller steps: ones that forced him to let his shoe sink into the sand for a long moment before continuing once over. He continued as such until the two countries had finally exited the beach-a good five minutes of hiking up the sand-and they could finally walk on clear, compact land.

* * *

Once they reached home America spoke again. Although "home" wasn't quite the name to give the place: it looked too clean, too organized, too stiff to be called home. The area seemed to be barren and uninhabited as if someone had emptied out all the mistakes and evidence that a person had been living there, but hadn't let any dust accumulate. And secondly, it wasn't an actual home as it was a large room: one that accomodated two beds and a bath much comfortably. This was the larger suites of the inn that America had reserved: one of the most expensive in the building, second only to the innkeeper's own housing. However, the room was simple with its matching wooden beds, a couple of small, empty drawers, a stout table and its three-chairs, all complemented by a large window with an extensive view.

America struggled to open his door to their expensive suite, his hand slightly twitching. "Cold weather, isn't it?"

England gave him an odd look. "Yes; yes it is." He waited until Alfred had finally unlocked the door with a resounding click. The American gestured inside the room, and Arthur took his que to walk inside before continuing. "It's liable to best my coldest weather if only you had snow by now."

America followed the older country inside, his heart speeding faster than what could be considered safe. Good thing he was a country.

"So...what do you think?" he started as he looked around the room swiftly in search for any forgotten mishaps: even the smallest speck of dust. He waited anxiously for an answer.

"We're going to be in the same room?" England turned around, one of his large black eyebrows raised in confusion. He glanced around the room one more time before saying. "Even if, it's not as bad as I thought. You've really outdone yourself," Arthur smiled.

The American blushed. He was too embarrassed that he assumed England would want to stay in the same room with him in the first place. However, he was glad he cleaned the room beforehand. "If you want to, I could get another room or-"

"Don't." America's eyes widened at the interruption. "I mean, it's quite alright. I don't mind it here." England averted his eyes quickly.

"Oh. Well, okay." Alfred scratched the back of his head. A long, awkward moment passed and they both stood flustered as they waited for the other to speak. America sighed. "I'll just go to sleep now," he stated while walking to his own bed.

"Wait, Alfred." The Brit had his hand up in a 'stop' motion to speak. He waited until Alfred had looked at him before continuing. "Why are you living here?" He gestured to the room around them.

"What do you mean?" America cocked his head to the side.

"You've lived in New York, correct?" Alfred nodded in response. "Well then, why would you move this far from your boss?" Britain frowned, his eyebrows furrowed like two wide ridges upon his forehead. "Isn't it much more beneficial to stay the nearest to Washington D.C.? So you can be as close to any major issues as they come?"

"That's right but Confederacy-" America short-circuited, instantly biting his tongue. He couldn't let any other information slip out between his fingers.

"Confederacy? Who's 'Confederacy'?" England cocked an eyebrow.

Alfred looked downcast for a moment. Then after a moment he shrugged. "He's... he's another country. My new brother."

At England's very surprised face America elaborated. "He's just the southern part of me, that's all." The American waved dismissively and continued to walk to his bed.

But a cold hand grasped at his, impending him from his destination. "Why didn't I know of this?" England demanded, as his green eyes bore into Alfred's.

"Just recently he came up-he never existed before," America only shook his arm once. He had more than enough strength to remove Arthur from his person. "But don't worry about him, he's not a real country. I'm still in control over all America like usual."

"Then what is he here for? What does he represent?" Arthur asked, determined.

"I actually have no clue," Alfred said with a shrug. "But that's okay since I don't really care too much about him. We've never really talked to each other to begin with anyway-"

"May I see him?"

Alfred froze. The question seemed to echo and dance in circles all around his mind and he caught himself mumbling._ 'Should he?'_ He stared past Arthur's ear, resting his eyes on the window behind the Brit and shook his head.

"You don't really want to..." he averted his eyes downward, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

England frowned. "But I should. If he is at least some form of a country, I should know about him personally as it is my duty to do so." The stern Englishman held his ground. He pulled his hands back out, crossed them on his chest, and sustained a rigid look on his face.

"Alright," America surrendered with a sigh. "I'll show you to him tomorrow if you'd like."

Arthur relaxed visibly. He nodded a 'thank you' before turning around to dig into his suitcase. The Brit pulled out a pair of grey pajama pants before addressing him:

"I'll be using the bathroom if you need me," the Brit called out as he walked past him into the small bathroom door.

"Mm," America mumbled, focused on getting his sleep. The American set about removing his clothes. He set his jacket on one of the chairs and made a good disposal of his soggy shoes: underneath his bed. With a relieved sigh he fell upon his mattress and moaned in bliss as the contours of his back melded with the fluffy comforter. '_This feels like cotton,'_ he mused as he shifted to a more comfortable position. '_It feels really good.'_

He promptly fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the sound of water that woke Alfred up, a persistent wash that would normally relax him. This morning it spoiled his mood.

'_I'm so tired,'_ he groaned internally as he sunk into his mattress. Slowly, he turned and stared at the empty bed across from him. '_And I have a feeling this meeting won't work out.'_ The shower stopped and America shut his eyes tightly like the clamped jaws of a shark, tucking his face under his pillow. It seemed to work. Although he could hear the muffled footsteps of the older country as England moved about the room, he didn't hear any requests to wake up. He tried to still his breathing.

"Alfred, are you awake?" he heard England ask with the usual scolding tone in his voice. America's heart pounded running feet and he silently gulped in a breath. His body wiggled uncomfortably under his pillow.

"Alfred," Arthur sighed, nonetheless moving closer to the bed. After a moment, the Brit started to poke at his pillow. "I'm aware that you're awake, Alfred. You can't get out of this one. Eventually you'll need to breathe," he smiled at his former charge.

Arthur waited. A second later Alfred moaned sleepily and shifted his body in his bed, turning his head upwards at a fresh-dressed England. "Mmm, whaa?" he asked in a tired, sluggish voice, as if he had just woken up and couldn't comprehend what was going on. He yawned with a practiced ease and lengthened his arms across the entire mattress. After a wide stretch his body promptly went limp. "Is it already time to go?" Alfred said in his normal voice.

"Yes," Arthur chuckled, he was happy that his former charge had never changed. Slowly shaking his head, he smiled his way back to his bed and placed his bathroom necessities in his suitcase. "Come, let's go visit this Confederacy of yours."

America frowned a little. "Why do you even want to see him?" the American voiced his confusion with only a slight drop of attitude. He didn't want to project his annoyance to the wrong person.

England turned to face him once again. "Why wouldn't you? Is there something wrong with your brother?" he asked, one of his thick eyebrows raised.

Alfred smirked, shaking his head. "No, no. There's nothing wrong with him, he's a nice guy and all but..." the younger country turned, his eyes averted away from England's.

"'But' what? What is it?" England creeped closer, encouraging the American with a gesture of his hand.

"It's just," America sighed and scratched the back of his neck nervously. "He doesn't like me much. So..." Alfred quickly sat up in his bed to send a big, blinding smile England's way. "So we should skip this and go straight to the fun part. We should see what's going on in town today-"

"Why not?" the Brit interrupted. He moved even closer to the American, near enough to nudge him as a signal to scoot. The younger country understood, sighing as he huffed a little over, leaving enough room for England to sit comfortably without slipping over the edge. Arthur sat beside Alfred and repeated. "Why doesn't he like you much?" He looked at him oddly.

With another sigh, America rolled his eyes. "It's nothing, Arthur," he murmured as he fell back down onto his bed. "No big deal..." He shifted into his pillow.

Arthur promptly jumped to his feet. "Well if it's nothing, let's not loiter here any longer. Seeing how it's 'no big deal' as you say I'm sure everything will be alright." With a brisk pace England hurried away to his own bed. "Make sure you get changed quickly," he said as he began to organize items back into his luggage.

'_Yes_, _**mother**_,' Alfred groaned, flipping over his bed as he did so. Now he could breathe easy. He turned his head to watch England's back, a slightly smaller frame of body compared to his, and stared as the Brit made unnecessary changes to the things in his luggage. He finally finished, and America watched as Arthur shut his suitcase with ease: only a slight snap of the lock until it sat delicately on the bed. Without taking even one glance at him, the Englishman silently walked past and carried his stuff over, placing it beside the room's small table on it's own feet. The Englishman pulled out a chair tucked under the table and took a seat.

'_I guess I'll get this over with,'_ Alfred grumbled internally, raising himself up from his bed at the slowest pace he could manage. He stretched his body out, reaching his hands out to the ceiling and yawning as he stood on his tip-toes. His back gave a thundering snap and America cracked his neck to the side to go with it. With one final shake of his body he left for the restroom.

* * *

It was afternoon by the time the two countries finally reached to Confederacy's, and the two paused in front of the house for a moment.

"Here it is," Alfred stated, pointing a crooked finger to a shabby brown building with a wooden porch: the only home in the vicinity. The place looked trodden with its flayed and long-distorted wood: old and outdated but not quite antique enough to demand further notice. However if one looked closely, they could see the perfect bluntness of the floor board and the odd strength of the two skinny and frail-looking pillars that held the entire structure in a delicate balance. Even as the wood rotted, this house _was_ history; it stood proud and majestic. But most breathtaking of all was the backdrop, the backyard of Confederacy's house: an endless, whopping field of cotton bushes. It looked like rows of a white army, ocean waves of snow that kept tiding into vision. England and America stood quietly and absorbed their surroundings until the latter's outburst ruined the moment.

"It's super hot," Alfred exclaimed as he fanned himself. They had been walking under the midday sun and its vengeful heat had burrowed into their bodies for at least half an hour. At that point America was too tired to do introductions, he simply cleared his throat. "He should be here today, he usually doesn't go anywhere else."

"Why not?" England turned to America, staring at him curiously.

The American shrugged. "I have no clue," he stated, then made his way towards the house alone. He pushed himself up the two steps with a sigh, and the aged wood of the porch groaned his arrival. A tired greyhound that was sleeping on the porch had been shaken awake, and it made a small whine in protest.

As soon as America knocked, the slight shuffling and scratches of it's paws against the wood of the porch could be heard before the greyhound snuggled itself back to sleep.

The door opened. "What're ya doin' here?" Alfred heard gruffly.

Alfred quickly straightened himself in a fumble, hands reasserting his clothes and jolting to a stand.

"Hey," he stammered, sizing up the man before him. The southerner looked in exact likeness of himself: the same golden, boyish, American features; except this version of America had shorter, brunet hair. And as Alfred straightened to a stand, it was apparent that Confederacy stood a good clear inch or so taller than his counterpart, even as the southerner leaned with crossed arms against the door, waiting.

Confederacy ran a rough hand through his hair, leaving his palm through the strands to massage his current headache away. "It isn't 'hey', Union. What _are_ you doin' here?" he said, slowly massaging his fingers into his hair to will his current headache away.

As Alfred stood there silently, the southerner sighed. "What did'ja want?" he explained while pushing back his glasses with a finger. The plain-framed glasses weren't complimentary to Confederacy; its medium-thick lens would contort with the bonnet blue of his eyes: giving the southerner a dim, nonchalant look. But the spectacles themselves gleamed especially for him; hiding with a silvery wink its origins and its secrets. Once, Alfred had asked him if he could try them on and check if he needed glasses as well, even though he was fairly sure he had perfect vision. It was all in good humor-he had just wanted to try them out, maybe fancy himself as a southerner for a couple of hours-but in the end the other country didn't give him the chance. Confederacy kept the lenses close to his person, ran off from the conversation, and didn't speak to Alfred until four days later. The American never bothered for those glasses since.

Alfred shook his head. "Nothing, it's just me and-" he paused and looked behind himself.

"Me. Good afternoon," England announced loudly with his usual polite greeting. He stepped forward, quickly crossing the porch steps to stand at par with Alfred, and gave a combination of both a wave and a smile. Ignoring the wide-eyed, shocked stare that the southerner gave him, Arthur continued. "I believe this would be the first time we've met-My name is England," he said, pointing at himself. In a gracious, respectful voice he finished in the exact epitome of a gentleman. "...And it's very nice to meet you, Mr. Confederacy," he outstretched his hand for a shake.

However, the southerner didn't make a single move; his hand remained stationed under his armpits as he transferred his suspicious glare to the new arrival, who, albeit awkwardly, still held out an open hand.

"What d'ya want?" he demanded, curious cautiousness slipping through his outward posture as he glanced between the two countries England and America. However, Confederacy settled his gaze on the latter. "Is there something you're 'bout to tell me?" he directed at his brother, who quickly averted his face in a different direction.

It was Britain who cleared his throat and spoke up. "Yes, I'd like to discuss some things with you if you don't mind," the Brit shuffled awkwardly, returning his outstretched hand to himself. With a quiet consciousness he folded his hands behind his back. "Is it okay if I come inside?"

Tearing his eyes away from his brother, Confederacy smiled genially, sporting a sliver of his perfect teeth. "Of course~" he promised, and his eyes glinted. The southerner released his cross-armed fit, and using his hands to gesture to the opening of his house he backed away from his door. "Why don'cha come on inside right now? Just give me a moment." He motioned his head towards his door and England took a step forward.

"Thank you," the Brit said, giving a quick nod of his head to the southerner before disappearing into the house.

"You're welcome." Confederacy waved good-bye, then with a slip of the hand, he grasped at the handle and shut his door with a thud. "Now," he began, re-focusing his attention on his brother who leaned over to wake the sleeping dog. "Am I missing out on somethin' that I should know?"

America straightened and shook his head. "No...what would that be?"

"You know what I mean. What's _he_ here for?" Confederacy pointed his thumb behind himself.

The yank shrugged. "No reason; he just wanted to come over to see you." Alfred turned his head, keeping his eyes unfocused elsewhere. He whistled. "Though I didn't know you had a problem with that, Confed. You were always begging me to meet other countries-"

"Yeah, and this is the first time you're listening to me. What's going on?" The southerner growled. "Is there some sorta deal that I'm a part of? Some sorta land grant that you're giving away behind my back? I thought we had a deal that the South was _mine_."

"It is yours!" Alfred reminded with a little more force than necessary. The tired greyhound, which was previously sleeping, perked to a stand and began to whine loudly. America sighed in frustration, "You know-"

Alfred paused and leaned in close to his brother, looking to both sides before he whispered. "You know just as well as I do that there needs to be an balance of the _types_ of states. Why would I disrupt that balance?" his blue eyes flared indignantly.

The southerner blinked. He stayed quiet as Alfred pulled away and turned his body from him, leaning on the rail of the porch. Confederacy waited for his next words.

"You of all people should know I'm not like that. That I don't break promises," started Alfred, as he shifted his stance to better accommodate the porch rail. The American took a moment to admire the railing, his hand trailed the wooden workmanship, slowly grazing the firm material back-and-forth. "Why would I do such a thing to you?" One blue eye blinked at his brother.

Confederacy had the decency to look abashed. He blushed, and swiftly pushed up his glasses in embarrassment. "I just thought ya was only thinkin for yourself. Nobody else included..." he stammered and looked away.

America snorted, facing up at the other country directly. "Man, come on!" he threw his hands out wildly and grinned, a wide boyish smile that glinted against the southerner's glasses. In moments the American was all over his brother, his arm draped around the other country's shoulder and his grip tight as it was overpowering. "You already know that I think of my people first. I only follow what my country tells me to do."

Confederacy winced, wiggling uncomfortably. "Alright, alright I got it, jus' let me go." He shook himself out and under his brother's arm, then dusted his shoulder quickly. "Sorry I assumed some things, but I can't help but think you're sellin' me off."

"Selling you off? Why would I do that?" Alfred said, taking a moment to look up past his brother. As he waited for an answer his eyes pasted themselves onto the rich, money-green scenery over the porch rail and trailed a lone cotton puff that breezed across the wind. He slowly shook his head.

'_Why would I ever?'_

* * *

If you don't understand what's going on, ring me up on a PM and I'll get back to you. And just for the record, if you see anything misspelled or what doesn't match or anything whatsoever, please let me know, I'll change it. Thanks for reading~


	3. Chapter 3

"There's no way I'd sell you off," Alfred restated. Nervously, he rubbed the back of his neck. "So... does that mean I can go inside now?"

Confederacy sighed and turned his head away. "Fine."

Forgiven and happy, Alfred clapped a hand onto his brother's shoulder in agreement. "Oh, and by the way, I didn't want him to come over either." America's smile dimmed to a stiff-thin line and he took a quick glance behind towards the door. "England came because he wanted to for some reason. For what, exactly? I have no clue..." he trailed off.

"Hn," Confederacy mumbled in response.

"But that's all I'm worried about, Confedey, I haven't seen him since 1812 so I can't predict what he'll do to you..." Alfred rested a hand on the porch rail, skimming his fingers across the wood. He snorted. "But I know it's not for something crazy like me selling you off." The American frowned. "Where did you get a stupid idea like that from?"

A pause. "Nowhere." Confederacy averted his eyes, his head faced in the opposite direction.

"Are you sure? You seem to be avoiding me," Alfred stated. He swiftly used a finger to force his brother's neck back, leaving the southerner no choice but to see him eye-to-eye.

America focused his eyes onto his brother's, making inescapable contact with the same blue that was shrouded beneath thick lenses. He waited as the younger country raised his lashes, fully staring back at him before continuing. "Come on, bro, we have a contract. You make all the cotton and crops and leave the rest to me, remember? Don't look so gloomy," said Alfred in a sing-song voice. He patted his brother's shoulder softly in comfort, snickering from the other's pout.

Confederacy shoved America's hand off his shoulder with growl. "Shaddup. I ain't gloomy, Union." He crossed his arms sternly. "Now do you want to go in or not?"

The American raised his hands up in surrender. "Yes, yes please. Sorry~" he finished with a smirk.

With a sigh, the southerner promptly opened his door and waved the other country inside.

* * *

As soon as he walked in, Alfred sunk into a seat next to Arthur, amongst one of the two couches stationed in Confederacy's salon and took the liberty of plopping both of his feet crossed upon a nearby wooden table.

"Alfred!" England scolded, swatting America's thigh with a loud 'slap'. "Get your feet down from there!"

In response Confederacy sighed heavily. "Don't worry none," he explained, waving his hand dismissively. "He does that all the time." The southerner turned to close his door. With a final 'click' the door locked and Confederacy returned his attention to the guests in his living room. "I've been used to it. But anyway..." he paused to push back his drooping glasses. "What would'ja like to drink?"

Britain pointed an accusing finger upon Alfred's shoes. "Drink?! There's no way I'd drink off of the same table he laid his feet on!" He nudged the distant American back into conversation. "Besides that's rude to your brother; you should bring your feet down."

"Hmph." With slow stubbornness, Alfred stomped his feet back onto the ground one by one. He turned his head away and mumbled. "Now you care..."

England snorted. "Yes, that I do. It's concerning the tea I'd like to place there in the nearby future." He looked up at Confederacy curiously. "You _do_ have tea, right?"

"'Course I do. I'll be back in a sec." The southerner disappeared into his kitchen immediately.

As soon as he left, however, Arthur took a quick glance at the living room. "This is a good house by the way," he mentioned as he observed the well-stitched, dark-brown couches he sat upon, feeling its even contours with his hand. He turned his attention to other furniture; the lone piano filling up the space where a dining table should've been and the many framed paintings and photographs of various people he'd never heard of hanging upon the walls: people presumably of sophisticated society. After his 360 degree inspection, Arthur's eyes rested on the table before him where he could finally see (without Alfred's feet in the way) a clean-cut glasses case, one of fine workmanship and of dark, sturdy wood, save for a few odd scratches at the top. It was used as a paperweight on top of the few blank pages placed on the table; pages stacked with precision.

With a smirk, the Brit turned to his American companion, who refused to observe the house as well. "He'll have a cleaner house than you any day, Alfred. Not a single, misplaced thing in sight," he said with another glance at his surroundings.

America snorted. "Yeah, well there's not much in this house to dirty it with. You can't blame me for all the government documents I have sprawled around." Strutting upright like a peacock, he adjusted his metaphorical tie. "I'm a busy and successful man: a hero," he stated with pride. His nose scrunched up in a entitled pout. "I don't have the time to waste on cleaning."

England began to chuckle; a light, hearty laugh until his eyes twinkled in mirth. "Oh I'm sure you are. That's your excuse for everything is it?" He clutched his stomach and laughed even more.

"No..." the American blushed, averting his red cheeks away immediately. "I-"

"Sorry ta interrupt," Confederacy walked in from the kitchen, carrying in his hands a ladened tray. He instantly moved towards the table, shoving with a free hand his glasses-case and papers, until there was ample room to place the drinks. Handing each refreshment individually, he finished his job and made way towards a singles couch at the foot of the table, sitting adjacent to the other countries.

In his seat the southerner immediately straightened, sat up properly, and stared at the Brit beginning to take a sip. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" he raised a curious eyebrow.

"Oh." England lowered his cup on a plate and lowered it to the table. "I just wanted to ask about trading."

Alfred gulped audibly. Unfortunately not from his drink. "What do you have to ask him that you can't ask me?" he pointed at himself.

"Something that's concerning _him_ and not _you_." England retorted sharply, returning his attention back onto the southerner. He continued without skipping a beat. "Anyway, I just wanted to possibly pull up a trading contract between us, something I believe you're familiar with?"

Surprised, Confederacy blanched and shook his head. "Na, I..."

Alfred swiftly jumped to a stand. He barked. "He's not the one to ask, Arthur," He furiously pointed against the seated southerner. "Don't waste your time here."

England immediately stood to par with him, frowning until his large eyebrows clashed to a dangerous "V". "What do you mean wasting my time? The cotton here is his, right?" He swiftly sat back down, snagged himself a page under the glasses-case, and procured a small pen from his pocket. He didn't pause or dilly-dally, continuing his conversation as the southerner sat in silence. "Let's begin writing out the jurisdictions to this contract. First-"

Before the pen could touch the paper, however, Alfred seized the sheet from England's hands and snatched with his other arm the stack of pages nearby: consequently top-sizing the unfortunate glasses-case with a reverberated 'clang'. "No!" He crumpled the papers in his arms, tightening his hold on them furiously as if his own life was being signed off on these papers. With a turn of his head, he looked downcast upon the wooden flooring and repeated. "No contracts."

A long pause passed. Then-

"What in the _world_ is wrong with you?" Arthur demanded, his expression dumbstruck. He almost laughed, a small, confused chuckle coughed through his lips as he stared incredulously at the shaken American before him. "Have you lost your mind?"

America worried his lip, teeth chomping into it until the dents of his teethmarks showed. He turned away quickly. "Let's get outta here," the American resolved, dropping from his hands the scrunched paper he held onto so steadfastly. Without regards or warning he grasped England's hand, yanking the poor Brit to his feet.

Arthur protested. "What are you-"

The American left him no room to finish. In mere strides, he bolted out of Confederacy's house, dragging the bewildered Arthur at his heels. Flying past the old, sleeping dog the two countries bounded down the steps in their hurry. Only the final sound of the door crash-slamming to a close could be heard as the they deserted the southerner's estate.

* * *

The steps of the pumped American beat fast upon the ground, dangerously nearing to a run. Alfred still hadn't, however, lessened his hold upon the Englishman; he held Arthur tighter in his hand than anything else, almost as if he was terrified of letting him free. Unbeknownst to him Arthur's hand numbed, his digits frozen still. The blood inside trapped until his wrist turned purple.

England couldn't help but hiss in pain, his eyebrows scrunched closely and green eyes tightly shut as he tried to follow America's pace. He tried to pull him back, slowing the reins of the rowdy, crazed horse, but the American was not listening. Not even to himself.

England was left with no choice. He pounded his fist against Alfred's back and shouted.

"Slow down!" No response.

"Wait a minute, would you?" His feet still sped fast over the ground.

"Stop, Alfred! I can't take this anymore!"

Suddenly, the American slowed to a complete halt. The exhausted Englishman panted audibly.

"Please..." the Brit started, a hand on his bent knees to inhale more deeply. "My wrist-"

America let go his wrist immediately. Retracting his hand to his pockets, he looked away, ashamed.

"What-" England coughed, rubbing his sore and reddened wrist while looking at his former colony with apprehensive eyes. He backed a step away and stared. "..What was that?"

"I don't know." Alfred shook his head, lost, running a hand through his hair as if to clear the knots in his mind. "I don't know..." His lashes fluttered in confusion and he blinked away his reverie a couple times. Turning on his English companion he asked delicately. "But is your hand...okay?"

"Yes, my hand's fine." England muttered, rubbing his wrist even more, solely focusing his attention on his bruise. "You didn't damage anything. It's just a bruise."

America sighed audibly. "Whew, thank goodness." With his hands stuffed in his pockets he began walking again, this time at a much more tolerable pace. England followed warily behind. After a short bout of silence America paused and turned his face back to his previous colonizer, who short-stopped himself a good arms length behind.

"Don't set a contract with Confederacy ever again," Alfred said slowly, in a flat, toneless voice.

Arthur frowned. "Why not? What will happen if I choose do so?" he pressed.

"My boss won't like it..." At England blasé face America sighed, raising a hand to massage his head. "It will be a great danger to me," he admitted further, stroking with his fingers the temples of his brain that stung acutely. "And-" he finally returned his hands down, slipping them into his pockets. "And you should've been talking to me about it. I make all the transactions for him."

"Do you now?" England's eyes squinted upon his ex-colony.

"Yes, that I do." The American stated, his lips set into a stiff line. "I'm sure you of all people would understand."

* * *

They barely spoke to each other the rest of the day. The two countries walked in slow motion, hesitant and not fully aware or interested of the town scenery around them. Both America and England passed by various attractions with only a heady guilt occupied in the mind of the former colony, and a befuddled worry in the thoughts of the latter.

Alfred unlocked the door to their room and silently walked in, not even checking behind himself to see if the Brit had followed. The American, limp and spent from the day, fell upon his bed without restraint, diving into the covers before England could ask something he didn't want to answer. He shifted into his bed uncomfortably, ignoring the dutiful information England passed stating that he was to take a shower. Alfred didn't care.

And yet, the younger country couldn't fall asleep, every toss and turn exemplified his distress, but he could only groan in frustration. Once the shower of water had stopped his heart flipped. If he was still awake who knows what Arthur would ask of him. America shook out of it, smothered himself overhead in his blankets, and pretended to sleep.

The pitter patter of feet on the floor sounded to his ears but he resisted the temptation to look. Shutting his eyes tightly, he stilled his breath and waited.

"Don't become like me," he heard Arthur whisper and felt a hand slip into his hair, ruffling his dirty-blond locks gently. "Please, Alfred."

Underneath the covers Alfred's eyes froze wide. He swallowed in his stale air.

* * *

Readers, I thank you for reading. But I especially thank my betareader, Tamagoakura, for editing. So, yeah...


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